


The Better to Devour You With

by kinoface



Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Rotkäppchen | Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-27
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinoface/pseuds/kinoface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alice wants to know what Red's favorite color is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Better to Devour You With

She asks you one evening, as the two of you are getting dressed for dinner at your grandmother's, what your favorite color is.

She does that, sometimes, waits for a moment of silence to ask a total non sequitur. You thought it out of character, at first, since it seemed quite frivolous, and Alice is not one to indulge in frivolity. But you figured it out the day she brought home a package of chocolates and said that she didn't know what kind you liked, so she got a bit of each, and she didn't seem pleased about doing it; it wasn't buying so much but rather not knowing _what_ to buy that got to her. In the end you ate the dark chocolates because she didn't like them, she took the whites because you didn't like those, and you shared the milk chocolate between the two of you. After that she knew, and everything was all right, and you couldn't bring yourself to tell her that you like hard candy better than chocolate, anyway.

So you're not surprised when she asks you this about your favorite color, because you're used to it by now. You watch her standing there at the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but her lace bra and cotton panties, and you tell her, leaning against the closet door and pointing your toes to roll a stocking up one leg, "Red."

She smiles and says, "Of course. The obvious answer, but the obvious answers are so often the wrong ones."

"On the other hand," you say, making a grab for the other stocking, "The obvious answers are so often the hardest to find."

She makes a small noise of agreement but shakes her head anyway, tutting quietly. "I should have known," she sighs. "Of course it would be red. Red suits you."

"I should hope so!"

"Honestly," she giggles, brightening, and turns serious again in a flash. "Red," she muses, with a sort of sing-song tone in her voice, and you ask _What?_ out of instinct, but she ignores you and keeps looking off into space with that familiar, dreamy look in her eyes. "Red," she says again, and it's that same voice she uses when she recites poetry, the voice with which she has sung to you more times than you can count, _How doth the little crocodile,_ and you can't help but pause and look up to watch her, because this is a voice that demands attention.

A moment of thought, and then she says, "Like white roses, dripping wet with fresh red paint."

You grin up at her, catching on quickly. "Like huge white teeth, dripping with fresh blood."

She wrinkles her nose, waving her hand as if to brush your words away. "Red like sunrises that set the sky on fire."

"Red like a burn." You push away from the wall to join her at the bedside.

"Red like a valentine," she counters, looking satisfied with herself for coming up with something you can't corrupt.

"Red like fresh-plucked cherries."

"Red like your grandmother's delicious pasta sauce."

"Red like wine."

You're standing so close now that you can feel the heat coming off her body.

"Red like your beautiful new cloak," she says, and her voice is quiet now as your hands sneak up to touch her waist. She does the same, and her fingers feel small and cold on your bare skin. She's all skinny and sharp, her skin pale and smooth under your palms, warming up as you feel the soft cotton of her panties and twist the sides in your fingers.

"Red like your insides," you whisper, and her breath hitches just the slightest.

She breathes deeply as you push her back onto the bed, and her voice catches in her throat when she tries to speak, until she swallows and sighs, "Red like the hearts in a pack of cards."

"And I'm the Queen." You give her your most wolfish smile and lick her neck as she shivers beneath you, arching up with a gasp. "I'm the reddest of them all," you whisper into the hollow of her throat. "Don't you forget."

"Never," she breathes, and you smile with the knowledge that tonight you'll make her scream for you.

You're supposed to be at your grandmother's house in an hour, but you're sure that no one there will be surprised if you show up fashionably late. Your grandmother will sigh in her thick Italian accent, "If I had a lira for every time you got lost chasing after pretty flowers," and then she'll kiss your cheek and lead you into the kitchen, and she'll be right. You never could resist pretty flowers, and your Alice is the prettiest of them all.


End file.
